


The Hounds Of

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blade Runner-ish AU, F/M, Future AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The Mad Dog haunts the streets of Kirkwall. Newly transferred to the city, Fenris hunts this dog down.It’s raining over neon, a red that screams into the night, into the city. It’s burning and brimming with electricity, a power that oozes into the alley. It’s a noise that buzzes, barely audible over the drops that slam against canvas. They roll down the shell of the umbrella, pool at her feet. Her knuckles are wet and boots muddy, condensation on the glass of the tablet. A sigh, the briefest closing of her eyes. The tablet glows bright, words she already knows, telling her things she can see clearly. She opens her eyes and the scene does not change. The bodies do not move. Red bleeds on concrete, mixes with rain, drips and drops, down into the sewer drain.





	

It’s raining over neon, a red that screams into the night, into the city. It’s burning and brimming with electricity, a power that oozes into the alley. It’s a noise that buzzes, barely audible over the drops that slam against canvas. They roll down the shell of the umbrella, pool at her feet. Her knuckles are wet and boots muddy, condensation on the glass of the tablet. A sigh, the briefest closing of her eyes. The tablet glows bright, words she already knows, telling her things she can see clearly. She opens her eyes and the scene does not change. The bodies do not move. Red bleeds on concrete, mixes with rain, drips and drops, down into the sewer drain.

“Just like the rest,” she speaks to the silent figure who stands beside her. Her voice is loud to be heard over the rain. She does not offer the sanctity of her umbrella, and he does not ask for it. He accepts all that falls, the wet that clumps hair together, rolls down his face. “The rain will wash away specific evidence, but the manner of the kills are all consistent with the Mad Dog.”

“She’s on the move,” he says. Expanding territory, but the only question is for who. On the bodies of those slain, identical gang tattoos rest upon their necks, just below their ears. A black dagger – motif of the Sharps Highwaymen. Their eyes are still open, wide with shock. Perhaps they did not see her coming. Perhaps they did not expect her to attack. Perhaps they did not expect her to win, taking her victory in their deaths.

Aveline sighs once again. Her guards move around her, body bags standing at the ready. She motions them forward as the images load onto her tablet, courtesy of the floating bot beside her head. She tucks it into the inner pockets of her jacket. There’s nothing more to be done here. The guards get to work, bagging body after body, loading them up to be taken to the morgue. It would be a long night of paperwork. Another night of staring at pictures, trying to see the pattern of movement and failing.

She looks over at him, watching the guards at their work. Hands in his pockets, jacket buttoned up high. Fenris doesn’t move even when she does, turns and takes her leave. The blood won’t stain the alley, and it will be as though the fight never happened. He turns, peers up at the rooftops. The alleys were no longer safe for the gangs. Any secluded area was a place where she could strike. He slips away as the bodies are all finally hauled away.

* * *

Bare feet pad against cold, wet, hard concrete. She staggers through the streets with a grin on her face, blood on her hands. She ignores all the small things under foot, gravel and glass, paper and dirt. The rain is cleaning, cleansing, soaking through skin and bone. Her clothes are thin, threadbare, worn and weathered, ready for their ending. They offer no protection. She laughs silently as she presses hands against her cheeks, runs them down her face. They shake as she holds them in front of her, wavering and unsteady, water pooling in her palms.

She leans against brick, fingertips running over the rough surface, avoiding both the light of the streetlamps and the gaze of passing people. She slips down some back passage, finds a door. She fiddles with the handle before she breaks it off completely and pushes the door open. She hides in this crowd of people, of gyrating motion, blinding and flashing light. These people pay the dark figure no mind, too caught up in the dance and in each other.

She doesn’t move to the beat. Whether she hears it or not is still up to debate. She’s too focused on cutting through, moving around the edges, finding the door behind the stage. She looks over her shoulder only once. Even if she were followed, they’d never find her now. A touch of paranoia or simply knowing when to be careful. There’s red on her belly, a hand pressed against her side. Tonight did not go as smoothly as it should have.

The knife of the Sharps Highwayman, the one that managed to stab her, hides in the sewers of the alley. Inconsequential and forgotten beside the bodies of those she killed. The only important thing was her escape, which she had managed before the guards arrived. She grits her teeth, continues her silent laughter, and walks with a falter, heading home.

* * *

Meredith is waiting for them in the morning. She sits at her desk, hands folded together, eyes moving from Aveline to Fenris. “I hope that your transfer will prove useful,” Meredith says, looking at Fenris. “Considering our own efforts have been… less than pleasing.” Aveline shifts on her feet, keeps her hands clasped behind her back. “These murders have gone on for far too long. The people demand an answer. They want to know they’re safe.”

The move from Tevinter to Kirkwall was filled with the Mad Dog’s exploits. His tablet was filled to the brim with report after report. He knew that she only killed gang members. He knew that most people felt positively about this brand of vigilante justice. The only ones who didn’t were the rich and noble, who felt outraged on principle, not because of the people killed. Too many nobles had their hands in the pockets of the gang, smuggling in the newest fad drug for them. Or something more sinister.

The killings were disrupting the natural albeit corrupt flow of the city. So the rich leaned on the easily manipulated. There she sat, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, glasses sharp on her face, a bot floating above her shoulder. Lips pursed with distaste and a misguided sense of superiority. Meredith leans forward. “They call you a hunter, a wolf.” She narrows her eyes at Fenris like she does not quite believe it. He doesn’t feel the need to defend himself. He knows what he’s done, all that he’s accomplished.

“The White Wolf versus the Mad Dog,” Meredith says as she leans back in her chair, pen tapping against her desk. “Make sure the wolf wins.”

Back at her desk, Aveline shakes her head, sinks into her chair. The wall beside her desk is lit up. Crime scene after crime scene, the faces of all the dead lined up a row. The gangs, their base of operations. Fenris stands before it as Aveline’s bot plugs into the wall, uploads the newest set of pictures. The computer is quick to run through facial recognition, adding names to the list. Fenris raises his hand, flips through picture after picture.

There’s nothing remarkable about them. The only thing that stands out is the stab wounds. No bullet wounds to be found. She uses knives, not guns. Silence to her advantage then? She fights in the dark corners, where the bots do not dare venture. Too likely to be caught and used for scrap. Without the shot of a gun, without the noise, it would take the guard longer to be notified of a fight. It was methodical, planned, the way the Dog fought.

Fenris cocks his head, cycles back through the pictures. A wall of light and glass, painting a dark portrait. It was methodical, yes, but there was anger in her kills. A brutality in the deaths. Anger in every thrust, rage in every death. They call her ‘dog’ to demean her. They call her ‘mad’ for the strokes she paints. Retaliation perhaps? His fingers tap lightly against the glass, and he searches for past gang conflicts. He scrolls through the list. Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual disputes.

He peers at the date of the first murders. He pulls up a calendar, of reports filed. Nothing unusual, relatively quiet. Two weeks before, Kirkwall received an influx of refugees from Ferelden, fleeing a failing city, lost to plague. All refugees listed and catalogued. He runs the list against the murdered gang members. Nothing. He runs the list against other murders, committed by the gangs. Names and dates begin to flood in.

A list of people who had fled something terrible, hoped to find a new home. They found the cremation fires instead. With a flick of his hand, the list moves from the wall to his tablet. He takes a seat, opposite of the desk from Aveline. She’s reading something and her brows are twisted in a way that Fenris has come to understand as concern not as frustration. “Those that we have embedded in the gangs have heard nothing. In fact, the Dog’s actions are forcing them to work together. I have here notifications that The Undercuts and Invisible Sisters are beginning to rally the others,” she tells Fenris.

“It will be war before too long,” she says as she rubs the frown away. Behind her a single video loops, the only evidence of the Dog they’ve managed to retrieve. A bot directed into an alley for an unrelated reason, finding something wholly unexpected. She stands up straight from where she had been bending down, tugging the knife from the body. She turns, over her shoulder to see the light of the bot. The top half of her face is hidden by the dark hood she wears. A wide grin spreads across her face. She straightens, tall and narrow, the knife turning in her hands. She throws it deftly and the video ends in static. It starts again immediately. A reminder of what they are looking for.

Both of them look up from their respective work when there’s a knock at the door. “Sorry to disturb you ma’am, but we’ve found something you’ll want to see,” the tech is brief, urgency in the way she knits her hands together. Aveline and Fenris both follow after her immediately. The techs heels click against the floor, leading them down into the basement. The lab is bright white, and a hologram of the crime scene stands in the middle of the room.

The tech stands beside one of the bodies, bends down. Minute finger motions and she’s dragging up the pool of blood from beside him, holding it flat over her palm. It’s that which she brings towards them, turns it on its side. “There are two patterns here,” the tech says as she separates the layer. The pool, and the splatter on top. “The victim, and an unknown.” She throws the unknown sampling towards them, directing it to the tablets they carry.

Aveline stares at hers, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “She’s injured,” Fenris says.

“I’ll make calls to the hospitals, see what’s come in recently,” Aveline says, turning on her heel. The smile is still on her face. Fenris watches her go, watches her triumphant in the victory she thinks she’s won. Fenris gives the tech a hasty thanks, takes the stairs by two. He slides in front of one of the empty desks, a computer, pulls up the sample. The amount of blood suggested a severe injury. It was doubtful the Dog would go to a hospital. More likely was she’d return to her den to hide, lick her wounds.

It would take time to run the sample against people in the city. It was muddied by the inclusion of the murdered Sharps. It would complicate the results, bring up far more than necessary. Aveline would have them start with the gangs, and onto other known criminals. On a hunch, he runs the sample against the list of refugees. His screen flashes, fades to black. With a small grunt of annoyance, he slaps the side of the computer. It flickers back to life. Three faces sit on the screen.

Carver Hawke. Bethany Hawke. Marian Hawke.

The pieces are easily put together. Fenris follows the string of reports and the timeline with ease. Shortly after their arrival in Kirkwall, Carver was killed – caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs. The Dog became active shortly after that, her first victims that of the Bloodragers and Followers. Those who had gotten her brother killed. One of these sisters was making Kirkwall pay for Carver’s death. Their address is easily obtained. He stands up abruptly, his chair pushed back in his haste. He sends the information to his tablet quickly, moves to collect his coat and helmet.

He runs down the stairs from the guard offices, through the noise of the lobby. People with tablets in their hands, bots on their shoulders. He’s never liked the idea of a bot. Floating eyes, watching everything and everyone. He values his privacy far too much. Today Kirkwall is all bright sunshine, laughter and noise, ignorant of the violence that bleeds underneath the city. He makes his way around the building, where his bike awaits.

He presses his thumb against the keypad, smiles as the bike hums into life, puts on his helmet. The engine is warm and rumbling underneath him, and with one swift movement, he’s off. The downtown streets are always an annoyance to drive on, too many tourists and people with not enough urgency in their lives. Once he hits the highway, it’s much smoother. He weaves around vehicles, his mind on the prize. _Make sure the wolf wins_. Perhaps it is foolish to rise to Meredith’s challenge. Still, if this relocation was to be permanent, he needed to etch out a better name for himself.

The address given places him in a quiet part of the city. Lawns perfectly cared for. Flowers on the windowsills. Elaborate mansions and the rich people who hide within. The Dog was one of these? The bike hums slowly as he drives slowly down the street, number after number, house after house until he stops. The mansion is dark, uncared for, abandoned. There are cracks in the driveway, weeds growing through pavement. He switches the bike off, places his helmet on the seat as he stands.

Vines cover the house and a few of the windows are boarded over. Whatever happened here, the owners left in a hurry. If it was still owned by the Hawke’s, then it couldn’t go up for sale. Fenris makes a mental note to check if the more esteemed neighbors had lodged any complaints about the mansions dilapidated appearance. He tests the handle of the front door and finds that the door groans open.

Light is an unwelcome guest here, and Fenris can see all the dust that hangs in the air, the dirt which lies undisturbed on the floor. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, brings up the flashlight. The door shuts on its own behind him, when he steps inside. He wipes the dust from the home panel with the sleeve. Conserve power mode is on, and the panel is cracked. Every attempt to turn on the electricity in the house is met with frustrating failure.

Instead, he turns, flashlight illuminating select parts of the house. A desk in the front foyer stacked with papers. A jar of flowers long dead, rotting petals on the floor. The first room appears to be a study – books upon cobwebbed books, embers of a fire long dead in the fireplace. The kitchen is more of the same. Rotting food on the counter as though they had left in an instant. There is nothing personal here, nothing that tells him where they could have gone.

The first stair creaks under his weight. The rest are more of the same as he heads towards the bedrooms. The guard rail is broken, flimsy, barely remaining upright. The windows are truly boarded here, not even a hint of sunlight piercing through the coverings. He reaches the landing, pauses when he hears a creak from somewhere other than under his feet. The air is still, stale, lifeless and empty. He turns the beam of his flashlight slowly. An empty hallway. Peeling wallpaper. A closed door. He takes an involuntary step back when the flashlight reaches the space in front of him.

Her feet are bare. Black jeans almost skin tight. A dark sweatshirt, whose hood does not hide her face. Short dark hair, choppy and carelessly cut. Her eyes are a bright and glowing blue, the mark of a lyrium addict. The grin spreads slow and wide across her face. The Mad Dog stands before him, soundlessly laughing. “Marian-” is all Fenris has time to say before she moves.

Faster than humanly possible, more evidence of the lyrium running through her veins. Her body twists, and her hand reaches out towards him. A hard chop to his wrist and his phone goes clattering against the floor. The air is stolen from him when she lands a solid punch just under his ribs, sending him backwards down the stairs. He gasps at the bottom, rolling onto his hands and knees, trying to keep air in his lungs. She walks down the stairs slowly. Foot after foot, she descends, that smile still on her face.

She stops in front of him, as he kneels before her. A hand reaches out, and she pinches a strand of his white hair between her fingers. She cocks her head, as if carefully thinking. He snakes his hand out, wraps it around her ankle, and pulls sharply. She hisses as she loses her balance, reaches for the broken banister. It rasps under her weight, the pulling, and it comes loose with a crack. Both the railing and the Dog end up on the floor, dust rising up all around them.

Fenris moves quickly, straddling her down, wrapping his hands around her neck. She bares her teeth at him, her feet kicking at the floor. He grunts as she lands hard punch after punch into his belly. She wheezes as his hands squeeze tighter. With more strength than he believed she had, she raises her hips, flips them both solidly. He tumbles away from her, and scrambles to his feet quickly. She does the same.

They stare at each other, her eerie eyes glowing in the dark, a shaft of sunlight splitting the space between them. He draws his gun, aims at the spot between her brows. The smile which faltered now returns. When he fires, he shoots only empty space. She’s on the move, running around him, behind him, planting a foot against the wall behind him, using it like a springboard. Her knee finds his face, and he feels the warm splash of blood from his nose before his world goes dark.

* * *

“-too hard. You almost broke his nose. Didn’t I tell you to show some restraint?” There’s something wet on his face, something cold. It dabs again and again in a gentle pattern. Without opening his eyes, he tests the range of his movement. He’s kneeling on ground, tied to something. His hands are bound behind what feels like… metal? Rivets on the sides. A support beam for some sort of building. His knees ache, no carpet underneath him. More like concrete. A factory building perhaps.

“You can stop pretending. I know you’re awake.” There’s a hand at his jaw, twisting his face upwards. She looks at him, a bloody cloth in her other hand. She has dark hair, like her sister, but hers is neatly styled, carefully cut. She’s younger, softer, less hard angles and more gentle lines. She wears a dark blue dress, a large orange scarf around her neck, and shiny black heels.

“Bethany Hawke,” he says. A faint smile, at that. Fenris looks over her shoulder, to see the Dog. Marian is close behind her sister, her arms crossed, watching Fenris with a scowl. The wall behind them is covered in wires, in screens, and he can recognize the guard’s bot system. Camera after camera on the streets of Kirkwall and even – personal bots. An eye in every corner. Including upon the gangs. Bethany lets go off his chin, looks over her shoulder.

“Yes,” she says, “impressive isn’t it? We can see into every dark corner. We have our hand in every system, every program. We own Kirkwall.” Bethany stands up straight, bloody cloth falling to the floor beside her. She’s not as tall as Marian, not as feral. She instills a different sort of fear in his bones. The Dog could kill him, but Bethany could rip him to shreds. She crosses her arms, plays with the stray threads of her scarf.

“The guard will come for me,” he says.

“Not until we want them to,” Bethany tells him. She turns, walks towards Marian. She stands at the Dog’s back, head on Marian’s shoulder, arms around her waist. Hands at the bottom of the shirt Marian is wearing, pulling it upwards to reveal a neatly stitched wound.

“The blood you found? We wanted you to.” She neatens the shirt once again, stands beside her sister. “The results of the sample? We made sure you got three names. Those names are no longer in the system. The report on Carver’s death? Removed. All the signs you found that point to us? Gone. We no longer exist,” Bethany says. “New to the city, to the guard, eager to prove yourself. Easily lured away from the rest.”

Bethany stalks forward, crouches down before him once again. “I told you. We own Kirkwall. The ‘Mad Dog’ –” she makes quotation marks in the air with her hands “– is simply cleaning the streets. No more will brothers lie in the gutter, their deaths unavenged. You know how often we went to the guard asking of the investigation into Carver’s death?” Bethany cocks her head. “Kirkwall doesn’t care about its refugees. The guard is corrupt to the core, doing only what the highest bidder demands.”

“We’re the justice in the city now,” she says as she stands. “You’re going to help us finish this.”

“You’re turning yourselves in and I’m going to escort you back to city hall?” Fenris asks dryly. Marian guffaws, nudges Bethany with her elbow. What follows is a series of hand movements, Bethany following each sign carefully.

“She thinks you’re funny. She also thinks it’s a shame you’ll probably die today,” Bethany says. “What do the gangs hate more than the Mad Dog? A good guard, a loyal guard, the kind of guard which actually arrests them. There are very few in the city. You’ve been busy since you’ve arrived. They’re quite fond of calling you the ‘white haired fucker’.” Bethany chuckles under her breath.

“We’re going to have guests soon. You and Marian are going to greet them. Be a good host and I’ll call the guard,” she says. “Fail, and you die. Try to escape, and you die. Hurt Marian, and you die. Do you understand?” Fenris slowly nods, making the agreements he needs to. Bethany closes her eyes, tilts her head and bots immediately rise up from behind the computer. Modified bots, no longer just simple eyes. Small robotic arms cut through his bonds.

He stands, rubbing his wrists, getting a better look at the space. Empty, save for the computers and a few scattered pieces of furniture. It may be where they operate but this can’t be where they truly live. The mansion either. They’ve taken his jacket, and he can see that his tablet lies upon the table by a keyboard. Plugged in. Another entrance into the guard for them.

Marian has her arms crossed as she makes her way towards him. She stops a few paces from his face, cocking her head at him. He’s seen quite a few lyrium addicts in his time. They burn brightly, fade quickly. Craving the stuff until their end, requiring a constant supply. He remembers the picture of her first arrival in Kirkwall. Her eyes were blue, but not like this. So much lyrium in so little time to make her this way.

She points at his nose then clenches her hand into a fist. She rubs that fist against her chest in a circle. Bethany snorts. “She’s apologizing. For the nose,” she says. _Show some restraint_. Fenris is sure that she did. Lyrium charged in the way she was, she very easily could have taken him down without giving him the opportunity to fight back. Marian shrugs, makes her way towards the chair in front of the computer. She flops into it, begins to spin round and round.

“What do you want from me?” Fenris asks.

“We’ve sent certain things to the gangs. In particular, a location,” Bethany is speaking as she walks, hands clasped behind her back, heels clicking against the floor. Fenris follows after her cautiously. There was no point in trying to arrest either of them, not while he was stuck in this situation. Best to gather as much information as possible. Together they stand in front of a window, look out upon the city. Not a factory. An apartment building.

One of the many which cover Darktown. Buildings tower upon buildings, cramped and crowded, filled to the brim with the lost and poor. Filled to the brim with refugees. All of them are in disrepair, falling apart, uncared for. No guards come here. No guards want to. A Darktown patrol was a death sentence. It was where all the gangs hid, all the thieves, murderers and scum. Of course the Mad Dog would be here as well.

“Darktown is forgotten. Neglected. Every day more and more refugees die. More innocents, just trying to get by. We need the guard. They’ll come once they hear word of a large firefight between the gangs and the Dog, with one of their own caught in the middle. You’ll help Marian survive until then,” Bethany tells him, “and she’ll keep you alive in return.”

“What about you?” Bethany smiles, pulls down the edge of her scarf. She exposes the mechanical hole on the side of her neck. She walks to Marian, shoos her out of the chair. It’s Marian who drags the heavy cable towards her, plugs it into her neck. The screens immediately change, flicker, move faster and faster, all the bots in the room awaiting their master’s command. Fenris stands beside her, watches as the screens illuminate with the hallways of the apartment.

Marian holds something in her fist, pushes it towards Fenris. He takes the earpiece, cautiously attaches it. “I am the eyes.” He hears Bethany’s voice from the earpiece, not from her mouth. She sits with her legs crossed, hands folded on her lap and her eyes closed. “I will guard your backs,” she says. Fenris watches as Marian attaches her own earpiece. “I know what you’re thinking. She’s only partially deaf. Don’t say anything you don’t want her to hear.” A smirk, as she zips up her hoodie. She grabs a backpack from the floor, swings it over her shoulders.

“I made myself this. Marian chose the lyrium. We made the sacrifices necessary to get what we want,” Bethany says.

“Justice,” Fenris says.

“Yes. They’re here. There’s a gun by the door. Marian will show you,” Bethany’s voice tells him. The bots are buzzing, moving, descending down through the building. A few remain by them. He’s sure there are more he isn’t seeing. They were giving him a gun. They don’t expect him to shoot Marian in the back. His eyes narrow.

“Are there civilians in the building?”

“No. They’ve been warned. The situation has been explained and they’ve graciously allowed us this space.” Many would relish the opportunity to see the gangs slaughtered, put in their place. More than simply Darktown. “The guard will be summoned once we feel you’ve earned it,” Bethany says with a hint of mirth in her voice. Marian snorts amusement. She’s wrapping a belt around her waist, and there are two daggers at her back, sitting underneath her backpack. She rests a hand on each hilt.

“Undercuts and Invisible Sisters. The Pretenders have declined the invitation. The remaining Sharps and Lords are on their way,” Bethany says. Marian directs Fenris towards the gun, hands it to him. One of the higher grade ones. Multiple rounds of ammo, different types of shots. A gun usually reserved for Wardens. Marian puts a hand on the gun, over his hand, pulls herself close to him. She closes any distance between them, presses her forehead against his.

Fenris is lost in blue, that blinding light, the low growl that rumbles in her throat. “Congratulations, you have your warning. Please try not to shoot her,” Bethany says. The growl instantly stops, and Marian smiles instead. She winks, gives him a peck on the nose. “They’re approaching the top. Now would be a good time to go.” Marian turns. Fenris rubs his nose. Odd. Everything about this was odd. All he wanted was to do his part, rally the guard, arrest the Hawke women and be on his way. Fighting a bloody swath through an apartment complex was not on his to-do list.

“Good luck,” she says in his ear as Marian pushes open the door. A quick glance tells him all he needs to know. One of the larger complexes, a straight drop in the center, below a large skylight. He peers over the railing. A long way down. Most of the power in the building is off, save for a few flickering light bulbs. The sun sits high in the sky, the only real source of light. He can hear shouting, footsteps. Frustration that the elevators don’t work.

Marian is making a straight line for the stairs. She settles herself against the wall, pulls out her daggers. Fenris eases into a stance, aims the gun at the door. Footsteps are growing closer. “Two more steps,” Bethany tells them. The doorknob turns. A bullet finds the first in the chest. Marian flits around the entrance, a dagger pressing upwards into the softness of the second’s neck. A bullet for the third as Marian grins.

There’s instantly shouting, the drawing of guns. Fenris ducks into a corridor as more push through. “Three down. Seven more in this group.” He can hear gunshots as they chase Marian. She’s leading them around the ring of the center, into his line of sight. He downs two before bullets are directed towards him. “Five.” Marian turns on her heel, moves like a blur, propelling herself forward and daggers find purchase in flesh. “Four.”

Fenris ducks behind the center barrier, takes careful aim. “Three.” He aims his shots carefully, not wanting to find out what Bethany will do to him if he accidentally shoots her sister down. “Two.” The final is screaming, turning to run. Fenris watches as Marian laughs silently, tackles the last to the ground. “There are no more on this floor.”

“I’ve disabled their bots. From the moment they walked in this building, they’ve been alone. They can’t communicate with each other. There are scattered groups on every floor, waiting for orders. The Sharps and Lords are approximately twenty minutes out,” Bethany’s voice tells them. Fenris meets Marian by the stairwell.

She exits onto the next floor running, bare feet against concrete, daggers in hand. When she strikes, they don’t hear her. She takes down three with ease. The first is a swipe across the throat, using the body as a barrier. She moves low, takes down the next with a precision stab in the main artery of his thigh. She smashes the skull of the third against the wall. Fenris finds the fourth and fifth which race towards her, expecting the Dog and finding bullets instead.

They clear floor after floor until – “stop. They’re doing something. Find somewhere to hide.” They both stop in their tracks, and she presses a hand against his chest as she cocks her head. She feels it before she hears it. Footsteps against concrete, vibrations that reach her feet. Another perk of the lyrium. She pushes him against a wall, into the small cover they have by the doorframe. She stands against him, every inch of her pressed against him.

He would protest, but he then hears heavy footsteps, and the whispers cast between those in the hallway. She somehow moves even closer, her palms against the wall by his head. He can feel her breathe against his neck, shallow quiet things, and he can see the shadow as they pass by the corridor. She breathes a sigh of relief when the footsteps begin to grow distant. She moves down the hallway, trying handle after handle. Eventually, one door opens.

He follows her inside, trespassers in someone else’s home. Pictures hang on the wall, smiling faces over threadbare furniture. “They must – noticed – bot – It’s – have to –.” Bethany’s voice fades away into static.

“It must be an EMP. They would use them to find the guards bots and cameras,” Fenris says as he watches Marian pace the room. She’s clearly frustrated, agitated. She pulls the backpack off, reaches inside. He only barely stops himself from laughing when she pulls an apple from the bag, sits on the couch like a child throwing a tantrum, and tears into it angrily. It surprises him even more when she passes one to him.

He takes a seat beside her, watches as she unceasingly bounces her leg. “It will take time for Bethany to have things running again. I am sure she will be fine,” Fenris tells her and the bouncing stops. She places the core of the apple on the table beside her. The apple is juicy and sweet, one of his favorites. She doesn’t stay calm for long. She’s pacing again, biting her bottom lip, hands in the pockets of her sweater.

He moves to rise, to catch her, to tell her to focus. He doesn’t want her worry to get him killed. They both pause when they hear it. Rising voices, many footsteps. Shouting as they search. The other gangs must have arrived by now. Their task just became a lot harder. Marian races for the patio door, swings it open. Cool air, tainted by the smell of the city, wafts into the apartment. He watches as she moves to stand on the railing of the patio.

He’s immediately running towards her, reaching for her, as she turns to face him. She crouches down, motions him closer. She adjusts his collar with care, fixes the knot of his tie. She wraps the length his tie around her fist, again and again. “What are you doing?” Fenris asks her. That damnable grin again. She drops abruptly, stepping backwards into empty air, choking him forward as she falls. He slams against the railing, holding tightly against it so he doesn’t go falling over with her. The tie unravels, red cloth waving in air, as she goes crashing onto the balcony of the apartment below.

He rubs his neck as he hears breaking glass. The footsteps outside the door have gotten louder. They’re breaking down doors one by one. It won’t be long until they find him. Maker knows where she’s gone. The gun sits in its holster around his waist. He leans against the balcony, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. More shouting. Gun shots. If he could see her, he knows she’d be laughing. There’s blood drooling into the apartment, underneath the crack of the door.

The handle turns. A bloodstained Hawke stands in the doorway. She stretches as she walks forward, finds a bag of wet naps in her backpack. She wipes her face clean, then shrugs on the backpack. Her daggers are back in their place. Fenris pretends as though he almost didn’t draw his gun and shoot her on instinct. He follows behind her. They take two more floor swiftly and neatly. At the third, Marian sags against a wall.

They find another open door. Fenris locks it behind them as Marian roots through her bag for a vial of lyrium. An addict such as she would need more and more to sustain her. Her addiction would drive her to an early grave if the gangs didn’t do that for her first. “Why did you leave Tevinter?” He whirls at the sound. It’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Marian sits cross legged on the bed, her hands wrapped around her ankles, looking at him curiously. Outside the glass door, the sun is beginning to set. They’ve been at this all day. His bones ache, every muscle ragged. He makes his way towards the bed, stretches himself down upon it and closes his eyes.

“Now you’re talking to me?” She lies sideways on the bed beside him, elbow in the mattress, resting her head against her fist. His eyes open when she flicks at his nose with her free hand. She smiles at the irritated scowl. “I left because I could. I wanted to. More than that is not your business,” he tells her. She thinks about that for a moment, then mimics his position, lying shoulder against shoulder.

“We left Ferelden because of the Blight.”

“I know.”

“Our parents died.”

“I am sorry.”

“Carver and Bethany were twins. I was supposed to protect them.” She’s moving again, rolling over top of him, straddling him. Her hands press against his chest and she leans her face close to his. “Even if it kills me, I will keep her safe. She wants to protect the refugees. I told her I didn’t need help but she insisted anyway. I - we chose you because you’re like us. You don’t belong here. You want this place to be better. You know it won’t change.” There’s warm purple and pink in the sky. It does nothing to change the cold ice in her eyes.

“You should leave Kirkwall as soon as you can,” she says.

“What about you?” He asks. Her jaw clenches shut as she moves, closing herself off from him once again. She sits on the edge of the bed, back hunched, fingers knitting together in her lap. “You can’t fix this city all by yourself.”

“I wanted this to be home,” is all she says. She moves through the next two floors in a fury. As though each gang member were a personal affront on all she was and all she wanted. Fenris covers her back, all those who might take her unawares. She’s a force of nature all her own, never slowing and never stopping. He’s not sure if that’s because of the lyrium or through sheer force of will. Often he catches her glancing upwards. She wants to be sure that none have slipped through their grasp. That none might threaten Bethany’s safety.

It’s a distraction. It’s this distraction that allows the first to drag Fenris back by his collar. The other rounds upon Marian. He kicks her in the chest, and she lands heavy against the wall. He picks up her own dagger from the floor, swipes towards her. She moves, but not fast enough. The dagger slices across her face, over her nose, a thin slice. The momentum of her movement casts her to the floor, and she’s struggling to rise on all fours. She readies herself for a blade in the back. Fenris stumbles forward, catches his wrist in his hands, and wrestles the Undercut to the floor. The other lies dead, neck at the wrong angle.

He twists the wrist that holds the dagger, turns the blade upon him. Then, with every last inch of his strength, he presses down. The Undercut can only watch as he stabs himself. Fenris rolls off of him, crawling towards Marian. “You’re hurt.” He takes off her backpack, roots through it until he finds a clean cloth. She leans against the wall as he gently wipes at her face. He finds the medi-gel in the pack, smears it across the cut. It begins to seal itself almost immediately. “It will scar,” he tells her. She shrugs.

“Across the way!” They both scramble immediately, ducking for cover behind the barrier. They watch as shots land in the wall. Marian is breathing heavy, same as he, the both of them crouched under the bannister. She turns to him, and he to her. The smile cracks on her first, turns to laughter. Laughter he can actually hear, like chiming bells, the clearest sign of her amusement. It’s hard not to join her. She’s free with it, her hand slapping against his chest in a friendly way. Fenris shakes his head, unable to wipe the grin from his face. Guard and Dog laugh over the sound of gunshots together.

She drags a vial of lyrium from the backpack, makes a fake ‘cheers’ motion towards him. She downs it quickly, her face twisting with displeasure at its vile taste. She reaches for the dagger embedded in the now still chest, sheathes it into her belt with the other after cleaning it. Together they crawl along the edges of the wall, as bots descend into the corridor. They harass the gangs, cast them into disarray. It buys them the time they need to duck inside a room.

“Can you hear me?” Bethany’s voice buzzes into life. Marian instantly flicks two thumbs up. “Good. Fenris’s absence has been noted. A report has just made its way into City Hall. The Mad Dog sighted, along with a large group of gang members. Fenris captured by the Mad Dog. They’re almost here. A large force.”

“Then we just have to last until they get here. Will you turn yourselves in after?” Fenris directs this question at the ceiling. Bethany’s laughter, Marian’s shaking her head. She turns towards the door. Their work is not yet finished. They’re a little more than halfway down the building. They can hear the sirens in the distance. She’s slowing yet again, practically licking the vials of lyrium clean. They’ve been at this for hours with little rest, barely any food. It was a wonder she was even standing.

She allows Fenris to lead, gun in hand, checking every corner. This was no Dog. “Was it you or Bethany who wanted to do this?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Both of us,” Bethany replies. Marian doesn’t hesitate in her nod of agreement. He doubts this. He thinks it was Bethany – reckless and angry, full of a need for _justice_. The loss of a sibling was a hard thing to swallow. He couldn’t imagine a twin. _We made the sacrifices necessary_. He shoots the person who turns the corner. The guard is beginning to make its way through the lower levels. The gangs are panicking, scattering.

There were so many bodies she left in the streets. A message to all the rest. This was the final nail. The leaders weren’t here of course, but the underlings were now rotting. It would take time to build up another force like the one Kirkwall had haunting its streets. Not enough bodies for all the gangs. Many would collapse upon themselves. They had done in months what the guard could not accomplish in years.

He’s part of the guard.

He shouldn’t admire them.

He shouldn’t admire her, Marian _Hawke_ , pushing herself forward, that gleam in her eyes. The first true champion of the people Kirkwall has seen in years – not the politicians spouting false promises. He thinks of Meredith, so easily bowed. Precious few with the drive to help, to protect. He knows how hard Aveline tries. He can think of no one else in the guard as motivated as she. He guesses she is the one leading the charge on the floors below.

He pulls her into an empty room, closes the door. He tucks the gun into his belt, makes his way towards her. “You should leave Kirkwall. Take Bethany and go. You said it yourself – you don’t belong here. The lyrium will kill you so just –” Marian presses a finger against his lips. She sighs even while she smiles, brushes a thumb against his cheekbones. Then she shakes her head.

One of the guard is broadcasting through the bots they’ve brought with them. _Surrender. Surrender. Surrender_. The one thing he knew that Bethany and Marian would never do. The Hawkes would be wasted in a cell, if they weren’t executed. “You need to leave now,” he says. Marian is still just softly smiling. The yelling draws his attention to the door. Loud footsteps. The occasional gunshot. Door after door being kicked open. The guard would allow none to hide, none to escape.

“Fenris.” The shouting is getting closer. He turns, faces Marian. She looks at him, reaches forward. Gentle fingers touch the nape of his neck, slide into his hair. She presses her nose against his, closes her eyes as she adjusts for the kiss. Her lips are cool but her mouth is warm, and she tastes faintly of iron. Tongue touches tongue, and he groans against her, hands at her waist, sliding against her back. Her hands are still drifting through his hair, until they settle on his shoulders. She steps back slightly, out of his grasp. “I’ll see you soon,” she says with a soft smile.

It’s the crash at the door which gets him. He turns to look, the guard bursting through. When he turns back around, she is gone. The apartment building is quickly searched and cleared. They find that the computer at the top of the building is dead, thoroughly wiped, all screens smashed. There is no trace of Bethany. It’s easy to place the blame on one single ghost, the Mad Dog which has slipped through their grasp.

They question him, his experience. He never once gives their names. He claims not to know them. The residents of Darktown give the guard nothing. For some time, before others form in their place, the residents of Kirkwall know some sort of peace away from the gangs. Fenris hands in his badge after a few restless weeks, moves away from the city.

* * *

He runs a thumb over the smooth skin of the apple, adds it to his basket. The market is bustling and loud, shoulder to shoulder as the crowd mills around booths. He hears it behind him. “Fenris.” It’s a voice he hasn’t forgotten. Her eyes are blue, not a harsh stroke of color this time. Soft, like a cloudy day. She smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked! You can always find me at my [tumblr. Cheers!](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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